Vixen. Rosie Garland

We must help our little cousin.’

      ‘Why must we?’ protests Cat, raising her eyebrows until they disappear beneath the folds of her kerchief. ‘Anne wants this, Anne wants that. It’s all I’ve ever heard, from the moment the spoilt brat was born.’

      ‘You’re upsetting the baby,’ says Alice, jiggling him up and down.

      His fat features gather themselves together, lips pout. He looks on the verge of a good long squawk.

      ‘Anne wants a man, Anne wants a baby, Anne wants a king and golden crown,’ continues Cat in a sing-song voice, ignoring her son. ‘Here we are, running around after her like we always did.’

      I sniff the spices carefully. ‘Delicious,’ I sigh.

      Their heads swivel like owls spying a mouse and I realise I’ve spoken out loud.

      We set to preparing the drink, Isabel sprinkling the spices into the jug of wine, for she has brought that also. My eyes prick at her kindness. We chatter some more, and even Cat speaks warm words when we part. She kisses me and calls me her silly little goose, but not unkindly. There are lines drawn at the corners of her mouth and eyes, which I’d never noticed before.

      I wait for Thomas to return. I unbraid my hair. I braid it again. I loosen my bodice laces. I tie them again. Never before has he been gone to the church so long. When he returns at last, I declare I am worn out with the waiting. His nostrils flare with the scents perfuming the house. As well as the wine, they have left a neat dish of food: lardons of pork, fried crisp; buttered peas with sippets; two honey-cakes so small you could swallow them both in one mouthful; a humped bun of wheaten bread studded with raisins.

      ‘This is very fine,’ he remarks, with a true note of pleasure.

      I stand by the table, hands gathered behind my back so he cannot see my fingers wringing with nervousness. My face glows with the thought of him speaking as kindly from this day on.

      ‘It is for you, Thomas. A gift from my cousins.’

      ‘I must thank them.’

      ‘They know you for a good man. They offer you this also.’

      I heft a glass of the wine and hold it to his nose. The dark spot at the centre of his eye blooms with delight.

      ‘It smells strong,’ he remarks.

      ‘It smells tasty. It is for sweetness in this household. Come.’

      ‘Yes, that is a good toast,’ he says, and once again his voice is soft. ‘We live sweetly, do we not?’

      He takes the cup and drains it off so fast that he coughs and water leaps into his eyes. I pour him another glass, and begin unwinding my coif until I stand before him bareheaded. He stares with his mouth open as I shake out the binding of my braids. I dip one of the sweetmeats into the wine and push it between his half-open lips. He pauses a moment, as though he has forgotten what you should do with a cake in your mouth, then begins to chew. I take the other and eat it myself, slowly. It is so luscious my eyelids droop.

      ‘Are you tired?’ he asks.

      ‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘I am never tired.’

      This seems to be a great jest for I start to giggle, then laugh and cannot stop. Suddenly neither can he. I pour another glass of the wine; he swigs half of it and offers the other. I smile and take a tiny sip, putting my lips over the wet spot where he laid his.

      ‘No, I shall share all with you. You are my companion,’ he says, pushing the cup into my face.

      I take a mighty gulp. I am springing fire: throat tight, breath rushing and a stabbing, almost painful, between my legs. However, his eyes are closing and opening slowly. If my needs are to be met I must get him before he falls asleep, which won’t be long by the look of him. I slip my chemise from my shoulders and draw his hands to rest upon the bare skin. He sucks in a sharp breath as I take his hand and guide him further down, to the breast. My nipple rounds into his palm and his head lowers as though he is about to suckle.

      ‘Yes, Tom,’ I gasp, and his head jerks up at the calling of his name.

      He pulls his hand out of my bodice so quickly that he rips the laces; shoves me hard and I stumble backwards, falling onto the floor.

      ‘No. No. It is not right,’ he moans.

      ‘It is. It is,’ I cry, hanging on to his ankle as he walks away.

      ‘I am not a fornicator; they couple like rats in straw.’

      ‘Please, Thomas,’ I beg. I cannot lose him now, not when I am so close to my goal.

      ‘They fly from one woman to another like flies from one dungheap to the next!’ he cries, his voice rising into a shout.

      The room holds its breath. I pick myself up, smoothing down my apron.

      ‘A dungheap?’ I say. ‘Is that what you think of me?’ I raise my eyes and fix them boldly on to his. ‘Am I so low in your estimation?’

      ‘No, I do not mean that,’ he mumbles. ‘I am not one of those priests who think women filthy. Women are the mothers of boys who grow to be men. As such we should honour them.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’ I tuck away my breast and fold my arms, hiding the torn fabric.

      ‘Would you have me bring the shame of a bastard child upon you?’

      ‘My beloved Margret is a priest’s woman, in Pilton. They have a boy; no one calls him bastard.’

      ‘It is a sin. It is written.’

      ‘Father Hugo sired a girl.’

      ‘I know this. He was lecherous.’

      ‘She married a merchant of the Staple with no shame.’

      ‘Best she is gone there, and swept clean from this place!’ His voice rises into a squawk.

      ‘You do not need to shout; I am standing beside you.’

      ‘Woman, show your master respect.’

      I press my lips together and glare at him.

      ‘Would you have me sin?’

      ‘No, sir,’ I sigh and give up the fight. There is no point trying to boil a pot of wet ashes. He lowers his voice and pats me upon the cheek, petting me as you would do a cat. Or a child. Something harmless, stupid and of no significance. I writhe beneath his touch.

      ‘I shouted at you. I should not do that,’ he says. ‘I shall not talk of this matter again. I will never rebuke you for it. No one need know.’

      I leave the house and am through my mother’s door in moments.

      ‘Mother, I must speak with you,’ I begin, and the words parch upon my tongue.

      She pauses in her chopping of turnips and raises her head. ‘Come now, Anne. What is it? Tell your mother. I have a week’s worth of work to do in an hour.’

      ‘It is Thomas.’ I whimper. ‘He is – difficult.’

      ‘All men are so. That’s how the Lord made them,’ she says, and returns her attention to the turnips. In an hour there will be a fine stew bubbling on the hearth. For some reason, the notion of eating turnips in my mother’s house seems a feast.

      ‘But,’ I start again. ‘He does not – things are not as they should be.’

      She sighs, lays down the paring knife. ‘By the Saint, girl. Can you not play him right?’

      ‘I try, so hard. Nothing I do is enough,’ I whine. She gives me a blank look. ‘He moans, he complains,’ I add, in case she does not understand.

      ‘Daughter,’ she says, and there is no softness in her voice. ‘What did you imagine happens between a man and a maid?’

      ‘Ma!’